Quotes about squirm, page 9
My Dream Will Come True
Last night I had a terrible dream,
A nightmare, which made me squirm and scream,
How did this horror make me feel,
Extremely worried the content was real.
I'm an arms dealer I make weapons of woe,
There is death and destruction wherever I go,
Do I care about war, do I hell,
I don't use the arms all I do is sell.
It's in my best interests that you start a fight,
I don't care a damn about who's wrong or right,
In my sick mind it is well instilled,
It's not my fault so many get killed.
My biggest customers are the politicians,
They never fight but they'll send you on missions,
Though it's with your liberty they are empowered,
Every one of them is a bloody coward.
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poem by Bri Mar
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A Penny for the Guy
(Ever remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot,
We see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!)
I was sorting through my father's things,
A month since he had died,
And flipping through the books he'd loved,
To still the chill inside,
When out there fell a photograph
Of me, at nine years old,
A tiny square of black and white
That made my blood run cold!
It brought the memories rushing back,
For in that ancient scene,
I stood before a building that
Would make an old man scream,
An air raid shelter, from the war,
A roof so flat and square,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Heritage
What is Africa to me:
Copper sun or scarlet sea,
Jungle star or jungle track,
Strong bronzed men, or regal black
Women from whose loins I sprang
When the birds of Eden sang?
One three centuries removed
From the scenes his fathers loved,
Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,
What is Africa to me?
So I lie, who all day long
Want no sound except the song
Sung by wild barbaric birds
Goading massive jungle herds,
Juggernauts of flesh that pass
Trampling tall defiant grass
Where young forest lovers lie,
Plighting troth beneath the sky.
So I lie, who always hear,
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poem by Countee Cullen
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The Scurril Press
OM JONESMITH _(loquitur)_: I've slept right through
The night-a rather clever thing to do.
How soundly women sleep _(looks at his wife.)
They're all alike. The sweetest thing in life
Is woman when she lies with folded tongue,
Its toil completed and its day-song sung.
(_Thump_) That's the morning paper. What a bore
That it should be delivered at the door.
There ought to be some expeditious way
To get it _to_ one. By this long delay
The fizz gets off the news _(a rap is heard)_.
That's Jane, the housemaid; she's an early bird;
She's brought it to the bedroom door, good soul.
_(Gets up and takes it in.)_ Upon the whole
The system's not so bad a one. What's here?
Gad, if they've not got after-listen dear
_(To sleeping wife)_-young Gastrotheos! Well,
If Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell
She'll shriek again-with laughter-seeing how
They treated Gast. with her. Yet I'll allow
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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Cruel Sorrows
Cruel sorrows on the living room floor
among misshapen thresholds, angry apricots, unbeaded orbits
of undefeated accusations, the eye pits of bitter avocados
looking for the lost contact lense of the moon under the black pillow
just getting off the nightshift with half-eaten celestial smiles
next to the green grape cameos on their bored antlers
wondering if they could still gore an answer from the red matador
trying to pick his teeth with the next word to come out of
the lunchbucket of his gangwar cottonmouth,
I open my heart of wounded horizons like a summer window
and let all the skies I’ve ever found unfeathered by the side of the road
go like the flyers for a garage sale I’ll never get up early enough
to get around to anyway.
If there were a fire, if just once,
someone stepped on their glasses like an emergency fire-alarm
and the tears went off like sprinklers in the hard pawnshops of the backup lights
flexing their overcharged batteries in the smoke-filled soap opera halls,
I would change my mind about humanity,
I would write it in hieroglyphic tatoos, sunspots, ants on an orchid,
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poem by Patrick White
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A Letter to AP Parody William Mackworth Praed A Letter of Advice
Dear AP, I leave you this letter
after writing from ten until nine
for a site I'd delight to know better,
for a smile that my heart can't decline.
But I found after lengthily pacing
for points in the cold for some sign
that my heart which with hope had been racing
in darkest despair did repine.
Dear AP from twelve to eleven
last night saw me knock at your door
in hope that an angel from heaven
should show me the light - but no more
shall I screed in my need if no answer
can echo, where no joy's in store -
I won't dangle as puppet-stringed dancer,
not even for one I adore!
When I came through a link all seemed dandy
but when one digs deeper one finds
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Any Soldier To His Son
What did I do, sonny, in the Great World War?
Well, I learned to peel potatoes and to scrub the barrack floor.
I learned to push a barrow and I learned to swing a pick,
I learned to turn my toes out, and to make my eyeballs click.
I learned the road to Folkestone, and I watched the English shore,
Go down behind the skyline, as I thought, for evermore.
And the Blighty boats went by us and the harbour hove in sight,
And they landed us and sorted us and marched us "by the right".
"Quick march!" across the cobbles, by the kids who rang along
Singing "Appoo?" "Spearmant" "Shokolah?" through dingy old Boulogne;
By the widows and the nurses and the niggers and Chinese,
And the gangs of smiling Fritzes, as saucy as you please.
I learned to ride as soldiers ride from Etaps to the Line,
For days and nights in cattle trucks, packed in like droves of swine.
I learned to curl and kip it on a foot of muddy floor,
And to envy cows and horses that have beds of beaucoup straw.
I learned to wash in shell holes and to shave myself in tea,
While the fragments of a mirror did a balance on my knee.
I learned to dodge the whizz-bangs and the flying lumps of lead,
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poem by Anonymous English
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Ginger's Cobber
''E wears perjarmer soots an' cleans 'is teeth,'
That's wot I reads. It fairly knocked me flat,
'Me soljer cobber, be the name o' Keith.'
Well, if that ain't the limit, strike me fat!
The sort that Ginger Mick would think beneath
'Is notice once. Perjarmers! Cleans 'is teeth?
Ole Ginger Mick 'as sent a billy-doo
Frum somew'ere on the earth where fightin' thick.
The Censor wus a sport to let it thro',
Considerin' the choice remarks o' Mick.
It wus that 'ot, I'm wond'rin' since it came
It didn't set the bloomin' mail aflame.
I'd love to let yeh 'ave it word fer word;
But, strickly, it's a bit above the odds;
An' there's remarks that's 'ardly ever 'eard
Amongst the company to w'ich we nods.
It seems they use the style in Ginger's trench
Wot's written out an' 'anded to the Bench.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Great Pig Story of the Tweed
“Hands off, old man!” the young man cried—
They stood beside the Tweed,
Where still the name of Murder Creek
Records some bloody deed.
The old man seized the hapless youth,
With frantic grasp and rough,
By what is popularly called
(But vulgarly) the scruff;
And shouted as he twirled him round,
And shook him to and fro,
“Was them consignments pigs? . . Great Scott!
Was them things pigs or no?”
Wild-eyed and gaunt, and grim he stood,
Beneath the scorching noon,—
Cantharides P. Roebuck, late
Of the steamboat Arakoon.
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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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You've Had Her
Things you have cherished
Now making you squirm
Ya ...
You've had her
And it's all over now
Why you were pining
You haven't a clue
Ya ...
You've had her
And it's all over now
It's all over now - for you
It's all only started - for her
Ah ...
And the one thing on your mind
Is : where is the next in line ?
As the words to all the love songs
Start making sense
To the girl
So
Far
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song performed by Morrissey
Added by Lucian Velea
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